


Journal 034: Grif, Dexter

by creatrixanimi, RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst and Humor, Character Study, Child Neglect, Childhood, Family, Friendship, Grif's Doomed Colony, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Illustrated, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2018-12-20 22:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11930679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creatrixanimi/pseuds/creatrixanimi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: Simmons lets his hand hover over the control panel while his eyes dart to the doorway. He is alone but he feels the weight of disapproving stares when he gulps and chooses to open the file. Of course this is merely gathering intel: an order from Sarge finally being fulfilled.A three-part character study with illustrations by Creatrixanimi.





	1. Sawdust

**Author's Note:**

> First of all: thanks to the talented Creatrixanimi for wanting to illustrate this story - I cannot thank you enough!
> 
> This story has a certain rhythm to understand the order of the scenes.  
> It always goes: childhood – colony – time with the gang.  
> Just to clear that up.

They are allowed to play under the grandstands as long as they do not disturb the spectators. No one comes to watch brats, there are enough of those in the noisy weekday. Children in the circus are quiet, eyes fixated on the stage in front of them, hypnotized by the sound of the drum that commands for the joggler to let his balls fly, for the dancers to stretch their legs, for the clown to trip and then the children open their mouths. Not to fill it with popcorn or cotton candy but to let out laughter that joins the drums in a rising melody that almost makes Dexter nod off.

He blinks, keeps the heavy eyelids up to keep his sister within sight. Kai is still at that annoying age where grabby-hands function as her natural position and on top of that she has developed a love for strangers that always makes her want to just reach out, despite the _“no”_ and the “ _Kai”_ and the _“get back here”_. Dexter feeds her the popcorn that are too old for the cart to sell, and the constant munching keeps her quiet, at least.

Her pupils dance when her eyes follow the colorful rays of light that shine between the seats. For a moment her fingers twitch, stretching out towards the dancing light as if she can grab a hold of it, but then the hand goes to her mouth to lick off grains of salt.

When Dexter grabs a handful of the snack she slaps his wrists and laughs, and he hushes at her, and both sounds drown in the applause; the clown leaves the scene, stumbling not twice but thrice and drops his pants in the end, and sticky palms are smashed together in sugar-sweet joy.

Kai’s little hand still reaches for his when the acrobat lets go. The audience’ gasps expands the moment, and the man is falling freely for an eternity, people’s hands move to their round mouths in slow motion, and then the fall is over. His grabs his partner’s extended hands, saved from the void below, and the trapeze swings backwards to bring them to the platform where they bow and beneath them the clapping becomes louder and faster as the hearts slow from adrenalin.

Dexter yawns and wishes he could watch cartoons but the old TV broke when that man mom brought home knocked it over in an alcohol-fueled rage. The circus should be enough amusement, or so they were told, but now he knows the show down to every second, every beat of the drum, every squeal from the audience, but Kai still laughs and claps and cries in joy, and her reactions beat everything on the stage. 

The color orange falls through the seats and lands upon his face. For a moment it can be confused with Hawaiian morning sun caressing his cheek. But only briefly. Then the ray dances down the grandstand.

Above them the acrobat tries to fly again. Two sets of hands clasp each other tightly. 

People clap.

 

* * *

They are allowed to bring everything they own. What a gesture, given how all his possessions can fit in his duffle. When he was drafted he was forced to leave everything of value behind. Should he not be able to bring all his sweat-stained t-shirts to this new colony, it will surely be a tragedy.

He manages to fit a few snack in there as well, including the jelly cream pie he stole from the storage room last week. While they had not managed to steal the treat from him they had forced him to run around the base until he collapsed. When he had finally returned to his cot, his legs had been screaming and his muscles had been cramping and the so-called teammates had been whispering in excitement in the corners. Apparently a rumor was already blossoming that Grif had cried when he had collapsed the second time. Funny how that had been so fucking obvious to fucking everybody since he had been wearing a fucking helmet with a fucking visor.

When he had thought the others asleep, he plucked the snack from under his mattress, staring at it until his mouth felt drier than the times he and Kai had ate themselves full in popcorn. He had not dared to take it out from it package, much less actually taking a bite from it, despite how sweet it had to be, how much his tongue would love the rare taste of sugar, despite how long it had been since he had a treat like this.

But the thought of the taste not besting the consequences of his theft kept him from ripping the package open and gulping down the pie in one go. He would savor it. Like wine. Years from now he would taste it and eat it and enjoy it, and it would be worth it all, even if the Drill Sergeant had flayed him alive when he had found him.

On his way out of the base – last time walking out of that hell hole, he realizes and smirks behind his visor – he sees a group of running soldiers. Morning practice and Grif is not joining them. He flips them the finger when they have run past him.

“But please, sir, I am sure I would be of use! I’m a good shot, I never miss. Well, not _never_ , that would be impossible, given how our rifles have a 0.5 percent chance of misfiring – not that I am complaining about the quality of the firearms here-“

 “Private,” the Drill Sergeant says, voice wavering from barely contained annoyance, “prove your good use by sprinting around the building until my headache is gone.”

 “Yes, sir.”

The stuttering soldiers reminds Grif of that kid in middle school that adored presentations for the chance of improving his grade but would then throw up the moment the teacher laid eyes on him. He stumbles over his own feet but quickly pushes himself up with dirt covering his chest plate.

Grif rolls his eyes when he mutters for him to get out of his way and does not flinch when their shoulders brush because he will not accept any orders, not here, not when he is on his fucking way out this hell hole. 

The Pelican waits for him just outside the training court. “You’re late,” another superior informs him. This place is simply filled them, superior after superior, so aware of the titles so they know which people they can order around.

 The clock on Grif’s HUD does not work, unless it is in fact 01.34am despite the burning sun above them, so he has no idea of how long ago it is since he should have been here. “Oops,” he says with a shrug, and then he is shoved towards the aircraft.

The hatch is still open and a soldier he does not recognize offers him his hand and pulls him up.

“Welcome aboard.”

“Sure thing.”

When the Pelican leaves ground, Grif does not look out of the window to see the place they are leaving behind. Instead he falls back in his seat, getting himself comfortable for the napping opportunity this long ride brings.

Basic was pure hell. Nothing can beat hell. Maybe this new colony even has more snack cakes stocked in the food storage.

* * *

“This is our room.”

“Neat.”

Simmons looks over his shoulder to stare at him. “Please don’t trash it.”

“Simmons, beds are sacred to me. I worship them. I won’t lay a finger against them.” 

“Yeah, then when was the last time you changed your own sheets? Your past beds had to suffer from all the gems you allowed to grow in them.” 

Grif snorts and drops his duffel on the lowest bunk. When he had left Hawaii he had only allowed to bring a limited amount of personal items with him. That amount only seemed to smaller when he was transported to the colony. Now it is even less. He has been forced to throw out a lot of clothes that had been too stained by the blood. “This bunk is mine. I refuse to climb stairs.” 

“That amount of exercise would surely kill you.” Simmons bites his lower lip, considers, tests the waters but then tries out the new nicknames they have given each other. “But it’s safer for me anyway. With your fat ass under me and not above me.”

 “You sure know where you want my fat ass,” Grif tells him and enjoys the way the color in Simmons’ face changes so it matches his armor. 

Simmons amuses him. The soldier is a tall, skinny mess, pale skin covered freckles, eyes darting around nervously as he searches the opportunity to prove himself. He stumbles over himself in his eager, stutters and blushes, but when met against Grif’s teasing comments he snorts and comes up with his own insults.

 Grif appreciates the creativity, and it only took them around ten minutes before _kissass_ and _fatass_ were thrown through the air like joggling balls back in the circus.

 Simmons makes it clear which side of the closet that belongs to Grif. When Grif is not enthusiastic enough he makes the border clear by drawing a line down the middle. He pouts when the pencil breaks and fetches a red marker instead.

 When Grif spreads his worn, smelly t-shirts all over the drawers, unfolded – oh the terror of creases can keep Simmons up at night  - his bunkmates throws a fit. Grif eats one of his few sacred snack cakes while Simmons stomps the floor.

 The group of people that Grif does not hate a hundred percent has been reduced to only include Kai, but now he is plagued by the growing annoyance that Simmons might come to belong in unfortunate category. 

* * *

“Get lost,” Gabe tells him after giving them both a shrinking, pink cotton candy. The sugar glints in the sunlight. “You’re ruining my sales.” 

Dexter and Kai have camped next to his cart; blanket, a couple of old cartoons and now a snack. His teeth dig into paper, already halfway done with the sweet. “Nah,” Dexter tells him, waving him off. “We’re cute. People dig that.” 

Kai laughs, dimples showing. 

Gabe snorts and looks around for potential customers. The sale has pretty much died out since the break ended ten minutes ago, but every once and a while a parent will come running, desperate to buy something sweet that will make their crying kid shut up. “Who told you that, boy?” 

“My mom.” 

“Your mom isn’t very smart.” 

Kai giggles again. It is her fault that they are out here, in the entrance tent, instead of under the tribunes. No one really calls it babysitting since it lasts most of the day anyway, every day, every week. And now it has lasted so long that even Kai is bored of the show. Which truly says a lot about the entertainment value since Kai can be excited about a rock she found on the road. 

“Well,” Dexter says after licking sugar off his lips, “her beard is prettier than yours.” 

A paper stick hits his head mockingly, and Kai leans her head back at the sight, laughter louder than the audience behind fabric walls. 

* * *

“Fresh meat,” their Sergeant says when they are all strapped to their seats. The ship has left gravity, they are floating in space, towards their new home in buttfuck nowhere.

There is a quiet chatter among the men, hands being shaken, names being said, worries and expectations being worded, snorts and laughter. Grif leans back in his seat. 

Three weeks from now, he is the only one alive.

* * *

 “Reds, get off my lawn!”

 “Oh my god, our enemy is a middle-aged, bitter man.”

 Simmons sends him a glare through the visor, and Grif can feel the bright blue eyes sparkling with annoyance despite the glass acting as a shield between them.

 Grif shrugs. “What? I had a neighbor like that once. Totally easy to defeat. Just piss them off enough and they’ll throw out their back.” 

“I mean it, Reds! Fuck off! Or taste bullets!” 

“Dude, as if you could hit their mouth.” 

“Shut your face, Tucker.” 

Grif and Simmons are kneeling behind a rock, using it as a cover, and the situation could probably be described as shitty – if not for the Blue’s terrible aim. Bullets are shot into the ground on both sides of the rock, but it just reminds Grif of the times when Kai was small and pissed off and would throw pebbles or dry pasta at him, depending on whether they were outside or inside. 

“Hey, Simmons, maybe you should give them a welcome basket.” 

“Just why would I give one of those to the enemies?” 

“You gave one to Sarge. He’s a bigger dick than any of those can be.” 

“You don’t know anything about my dick, Red!” one of his newly appointed enemies shouts down at him. 

Grif yells back, “And man, I am happy for that missing knowledge!” 

Bullets turn into insults, and the insults ends up being thrown at teammates instead of enemies, and while the Blues are busy insulting dick sizes, Grif nudges Simmons’ shoulder. “Can we go home now?” 

“Wha- _No_. We are supposed to kill the Blues.” 

“Man, Sarge expects us to win the war on our very first mission? He’s going to get disappointed.” 

“You’ve _already_ disappointed him. You managed that within the first two minutes when he first met you.” 

“That’s a disappointing time. I swore I should be able to that within a single minute.” 

“Well, you did achieve that with me.” 

“Oh, you flatter me, Simmons.” 

Simmons snorts, his shoulders shake slightly, but then he freezes, mind going straight back into mission-mode. Grif can see it on him, the way his muscles tense, and he can imagine the way the blue eyes narrow in focus behind the visor. “Their Sergeant isn’t there.” 

“How the fuck do you know?” 

“His armor is different.” 

“Well, which color is it?” 

“Like… Blue-ish? Green-ish? Aqua? It’s weird, how the fuck should I know, he just isn’t there, okay.” 

“Geeze, calm down.” 

“I don’t know all the shades of blue, okay. You’re not even a shade a red, you’re orange. How come?” 

“How about we discuss that story when we are not on enemy territory?” 

“Oh.” 

Grif shifts, adjusts the weight of his rifle in his hands. The edges feel odd against his fingers, and he tries to remember how long it has been since the last time someone fired bullets at him and he had been ready to fire back. But he knows his finger will find the trigger by instinct, there is a thread connecting that chamber of his mind to his finger, and that is motion they drilled into them back in Basic. It is automatic reaction, so easy to complete that it can probably be done in his sleep, and that instinct is probably the thing he hates them the most for. 

“Well, if their Sergeant is not here, we can’t complete the mission, can we? We should go home. We’ll try again next week. Let’s go home, buddy.” 

“But-“ 

“We can’t kill all the Blues if all the Blues aren’t there.” 

“Yes, but-“ 

“Simmons,” he says, head tilted, set of eyes finding each other through visors. “Do you really want to open fire?” 

Sarge shouts at them for not firing a single bullet, Simmons stutters a bit and Grif gets to nap early.

 

* * *

They are finally allowed to leave the tents during the show. He had asked mom while she sat in front of the mirror, reddening her cheeks just where the hair ends, and she said she does not give a shit about where they go, and that certainly counts is her allowing them to have some fun unsupervised. 

The water is warm and the sand is pleasant under their bare feet. Dexter makes sure they are not too close to the shops, too close to the promenade where people might see them. Some sorts of parents have a weird habit of getting nervous when they see two kids alone near the sea. They ask questions, the kinds that Dexter does not want to answer and that Kai does not understand. 

They prefer to be alone anyway.

Dexter is lying on his back, eyes closed so that the evening sun can rest on his face. His dark hair will get filled with sand corns that will fall to the floor of their home in the truck the next time mom either gets mad or gets sentimental, both scenarios where she will dig her fingers into his hair.

The sound of the waves is lulling him asleep, the splashes much more pleasant than the annoying, constant drums inside the tents. It’s calming and the sand works like a pillow, and he is oh so tired –

And then his eyes snap open.

The water is warm, and Kai knows how to swim. She is six now, and he taught her how to swim so long ago. He is two years older and a better swimmer but right now he cannot swim fast enough, dive deep enough, and he _cannot find her_ - 

“Booh,” she screams when she breaks the surface just behind him. When Dexter turns himself around to shout at her she splashes water in his face. 

He swallows and tastes salt. “I fucking hate you,” he lets her know as they swim back to the shore. 

“Fucking hate you too,” she tells him, smiling, and he scolds her for her language.

* * *

Grif is sharing bunk with Rowse who is not a hundred percent asshole, mainly because he offered half of his chocolate bar when they started unpacking. 

When Grif with his mouth full asks him why, Rowse tells him he has that look on his face. 

“I appreciate how specific you are being,” Grif says with a scowl, wondering if he has melted chocolate on his chin or something. “What’s wrong with my face?” 

“You know, that kinda look that you don’t want to be here.” 

“Pretty sure that look is called exhaustion, dude.” 

Rowse sits down, duffel in his lap. “You’re the draftee who stole from the food storage. That’s pretty awesome. I thought they were gonna kill you.” 

“They sure tried to,” Grif replies with a shudder. His thigh muscles still hurt and the cream pie is still uneaten. 

Rowse is not a draftee. His fate was decided generations ago when the first Rowse joined the military and the tradition has continued ever since, Rowse after Rowse marching into war, either dying or surviving to ensure the next row of Rowse to keep the military alive.

This Rowse is pretty sure that one weird guy back in Basic, the one who annoyed everybody with his really lame puns (bikes are tired, everyone), is a long lost cousin or something. It is apparently hard to keep track.

Rowse pulls out a string of pictures, portraits in fact, and gives himself the time to introduce everyone by name and in what manner they are related to him. Grif loses track after a couple of seconds. They are all wearing helmets anyway, standing proud in their uniform, but they’re not allowed to have a face. 

A couple of times Rowse even seems to mess up slightly. He coughs and corrects himself, and quietly under his breath he utters an apology to his ancestors for accidentally calling his brother his grandmother. 

Grif is hard to impress. The family pictureback home with the macaroni and glitter frame that Kai once gave him is hopefully still hanging on the wall – Kai knocked it down at a party once but had the decency to change the broken glass – only shows himself and his sister but it’s better than Rowse helmet catalogue.

* * *

Simmons always goes to bed right on time, 11pm, when the evening patrol is done and they have taken off their armor and sun is supposed to be gone – but it is still there, on the middle of the sky, because Blood Gulch defies the laws of logic. 

And Simmons’ choice to go to bed before midnight is not logical. The nerd never sleeps right away, it takes hours for him to stop turning over every fucking minute. Of course Grif is awake as well to hear this but he never sleeps right away. Sleep is different now, a sweeter escape but harder to achieve. 11 to 5am is a fucking fairytale at this point, time to start to believe in dragons and unicorns next, and when he finally crashes he is lucky to get 4 hours of rest. Even luckier if he goes through them without nightmares.

But it is funnier to sleep throughout the day anyways, just one of many ways to piss off Sarge, and even the nerd sputters a bit when he finds him napping. 

Simmons is not awake because he wants to read as Grif had thought at first. Simmons does not even turn on the light. The room is dark and hot and filled with a thick silence only broken by Simmons’ constant shuffling. Left, right, left, right, and at some point he even turns around completely so his head is resting in the foot of the bed. 

“Ants in your bed?” 

There is a moment of silence before Simmons is moving against his sheet again. “What?” 

“Or perhaps in your boxers?” Now that would be a sight to see. “You know we are supposed to be sleeping, right?” 

“Well, _you_ are not asleep.” 

“Your skills of observation impress me, Simmons.” 

Simmons turns again. The sound is as annoying as it is comforting. Better than silence, anyway, silent bases are perhaps the worst thing Grif can imagine. Right after mutated bats, of course. 

“Why red?” he asks, grabbing one of those flies in the back of his head, the ones creating the buzzing, and throwing it out of his mind through his mouth. 

Simmons shifts. “What?” 

“Why red?” he says again, allowing a frown to be formed on his forehead. No one can see it in the darkness anyway, so in a philosophical manner the frown does not even exist. Does the tree truly fall if no one hears it crash? “And why blue?” 

“…You mean why we are fighting?” 

“No, I mean why those colors? Do you think there is a yellow versus green going on somewhere?” 

“Hardly. There are only three primary colors. Red, blue and yellow. You know, like we were taught all the way back in primary school.” 

“So you are not ruling out a yellow team somewhere?” 

They talk until both of them drift off, quiet voices floating through the black void between their beds, weaving patterns of inside jokes and hushed insults and quiet _“do you wanna talk about it”_ s that follow them as they make their way through the canyon.

* * *

Kai does not understand colors. Dexter learns this rather quickly when he receives a drawing where the sun is blue and the grass is red and the sky is green, and he hangs it up on the wall alongside the other drawings of what he thought was fantasy land, and he studies it with squinted eyes and a frown on his forehead. 

Mom is not worried but she rarely frowns at anything related to them – yes, they are _that_ good kids, naturally – and she tells him she will probably learn them by time. 

Dexter makes sure to point at everything, connecting them with a color. It is a new game, a new part of the babysitting, but at least it keeps Kai close since these phantoms interest her.  Colors are fantasy land for her, everyone else in the world has these magical imaginary friends called red and blue and yellow and many other names, and Kai cannot see them, is not embraced by the magic. 

After their lessons she knows the color, sings them out loud with excitement in her voice. 

Yellow is the sun, green is the grass, blue is the waves, red is the lips, orange is the old tiger from the stories that the former circus director tells them about. Now she just follows the circus around, watching the stage from her own special chair with extra paddings, and she is so old and so wrinkled that Kai just automatically called her Granny and the name has stuck since. They do not know their real granny, mom says she has no family and Dexter does not remember his dad, so granny who stinks of smokes and sawdust and tells them stories about the old days is the best they got.

She showed them a picture of it once, the tiger, and Dexter had watched in awe at its skinny form behind the bars of the cage. It had been old, apparently, whiskers always dropping. When he asked if it died she shrugs and says it disappeared one day, after a lot of folk had visited them.

Kai asks if his t-shirt is orange and when he says yes they both draw stripes on it with a fat black marker because orange is the tiger.

Dexter growls weakly when she comes to close and tickles her when he catches her but he does not find the energy to chase her around. Eventually she lies down next to him. 

“You’re lazy,” she says, chubby fingers reaching for the marker so she can draw whiskers on his face. 

He yawns. “Tigers like to nap.”

* * *

“It’s Norwegian,” he says firmly, stabbing his breakfast with a spoon. 

Around him people are trying to hold back laughter, and Rowse barely keeps a straight face as he asks for him to say it again.

“ _Fuglbøg_.”

Grif decides to give it a try. “ _F_ _uckboy._ ” 

“No, it’s, ah, it sounds nothing like that!” 

“Dude, it kinda does.” Grif prefers this new mess hall. Food still tastes like shit, and that is no surprise, but at least laughter is allowed here, echoing against the metal walls. Everyone at their table is laughing right now.

Rowse leans closer to their teammate. “So is it a family name?” 

“ _Y_ _es_. That’s what I am saying. My grandma was from Norway. And it’s not pronounced like that!” 

“You should be happy ‘bout your weird as fuck name,” Grif decides to let him know once he has finished his meal. “Unlike Rowse here you don’t have to share it with half of the freaking army.” 

Rowse nods gravely. “Imagine that. The army of Fuckboys.” 

“It’s not pronounced like _Fuckboy_ ,” Fuckboy says sternly and the others just nod.

* * *

Grif wakes up with stitches running down his body like darkened drops of water. He is held together by twine, and if you cut him open he will fall apart and spill onto the floor as a mix of Grif and Simmons. It is a weird thought, one that keeps him open at night, and he wonders if it keeps Simmons awake too because the nerd does not sleep, he shifts and turns and groans when the sheet catches on stitches.

“Hey, Simmons?”

 “What?”

The heart that beats inside Grif’s chest, the one that quickens its pace as the question lingers, is not Grif’s but it’s Simmons, and now Simmons’ chest is filled with wires and gears and a weird sort of oil that has left a stain in the corner of the room. Grif is yet to see it up close, mainly because tearing shirts off people is considered impolite, and he wonders if there’s a hatch where his heart once were and if you can open it and see the clockwork within. 

Simmons is sleeping with a pajamas shirt now instead of the old maroon t-shirt he once wore, the one with the faded pi emblem, the one his mother had given to him before the divorce had happened and the shit that followed and what eventually drove him to the army. This new shirt covers his new metal arm, and Simmons keeps tugging down his sleeves. 

Yesterday the limb managed to attract the magnets on the fridge door, the ones Donut had brought – red and pink hearts and Grif’s favorite, though he will never admit this weakness, a plastic apple pie that Donut says reminds him of home – and Simmons had torn them off and throw them to the floor, sputtering and red in the face. The left side of him is too heavy now, cyborg limbs dragging him down, and he keeps stumbling into furniture, brushing shoulder with the wall, stumbling over his own body parts that are unfamiliar to him. 

“Lay the fuck still.” Grif turns over, clutching his cover. “Sarge says we need our beauty sleep.” 

“I’m pretty sure he was referring to you. And that it was an insult, not an order.” 

Grif received stitches back when the accident had happened. He remembers how he had not cried but Kai had started sobbing every time she looked at the sore on his face. The scar is still there, just barely left untouched by his new skin draft, his new eye; a ghostly pale area on the left side of his face, iris blue in a manner that reminds him of the waves. He has stared into the blue numerous times before, sometimes for so long that Simmons would blush and bow his head and his stutter would return, but now the eye belongs to Grif. He blinks and stares at the ceiling. 

The question hangs in the air when they both have numbed their minds with painkillers and sleep medication, small colorful pills by the curtesy of UNSC who must care _so much_ about their well-being, when they have both crawled under their covers, when they have both pulled their stitches, when they have both winched into their pillows, when they both fill the room with quiet, slow breaths as they await sleep. 

 _do you wanna talk about it_  

The stitches heal. 

One night Grif asks Simmons if he thinks Iron Man is attracted to magnets, and the pillow talk begins, amused snorts and hidden laughter, and no one brings up the surgery. 

* * *

“Look,” Kai says, arms extended to each side to aid her balance. She is doing a split, leg in front of her, one behind her, and when she eventually drops to one side she lands softly in the sand. “Look, big bro.” 

“I don’t think legs are meant to do that.”

“Mine are.” 

He huffs, watching her twist and bend and stretch her limbs. “Planning on an act in the circus?” 

“Maybe.” She is wriggling her toes.

Dexter watches her play with the training equipment, throwing up balls in the air. The fall around her like colorful, heavy raindrops. _Thud, thud, thud_. Kai likes the spotlight, strives for it, chases the rays of light from under the seats when she gets bored.

He prefers the darkened corner under the tribunes where it is easier to nap, despite the drums and the clapping and the laughter. 

“Why?”

Kai looks at him, blows stray hair away from her face, and sends him a smile. “Free cotton candy.”

He recognizes the answer, the same one he gives to all the dumb kids who ask them why they live in a tent.

Kai throws a ball at him, and he fails to dodge it. From the old equipment trunk she pulls out a set of poi, then some more joggling balls, and finally a worn fire staff that she throws in his direction. When he picks it up, he weighs it in his hand. 

Whenever they train she does not complain about the sores they gain on their hands and knees but instead about the hair that keeps falling in her eyes, so he ties it in a braid behind her head, brushing out sand and sawdust.

* * *

“Faster, Grif!”

 “I’m.” _Pant_ . “Gonna.” _Pant_ . “Die.” _Pant_.

“Not today,” Sergeant Levan promises him, and she is proven to be right later.  “But you will surely die trying to outrun your enemy.”

Grif kneels over, hands on his burning thighs. “Which. Enemy?”

“We’re in a war, Private Grif.” The Sergeant walks over to stand next to him. She does not help him get up but she does not try to trip him either.

“Almost. Didn’t. Notice.”

He finally straightens out his back, one foot in front of another, and stumbles after the rest of his platoon that is so far away from him now. Back in Basic they would be running from their Sergeant in fear but Levan is nowhere near is terrifying. Still stern as hell with a nasty voice hoarse from decades of yelling orders and calling people slow.

“That’s it, Private Grif,” she says and nods in satisfaction. “Up and about, you still have miles to go.”

* * *

“Simmons, are you… napping?” Grif lets his mouth drop open, hands clasped together in excitement, voice ecstatic. It is like Christmas, a maroon gift resting in the shade.

“No.”

“Yes, you are.  You are totally napping. Oh my god, how do I make this thing take a picture?” He tears of his helmet, fumbles with it, touches buttons he has never understood and eventually throws it in the sand, next to the stuck Warthog.

Simmons bares his face as well, blinking with his blue eyes to prove he is indeed awake. “Stop making a fuss.”

“But you are napping, Simmons, with _me_.” He drops down next to him, limbs heavy, and nuzzles his body against the sand beneath him until he has found a comfortable position. “It’s a big deal.”

“How?”

“You’re sharing my life style. I’ve rubbed off on you.”

“Please, I’ve managed to avoid your stench clinging unto me ever since the first day I met you. And we are not napping, we are both awake and _talking_.” His face tilts downwards, one hand digging into the sand they are sitting in. “And I was not napping before. I was just resting. It’s normal, totally, it’s been a long day.”

Grif nods twice. “Time travel does that too you.”

Simmons groans, a pitiful noise, and closes his eyes. “My mind cannot keep with this level of craziness.”

“Truly? I thought you had the greatest brain to ever exist, Simmons. ‘cause my brain is feeling fine.”

“Your brain gave up years ago, you just don’t know it yet.” He turns his head, and there is sand in his red hair now. “But seriously, don’t you think all this is crazy?”

“Dude, how come you are not used to crazy by now?”

They stay in the shade for two hours.

* * *

Kai’s birthday is coming up in a few weeks. Her seventh. He remembers when she was small and would only say noises that made no sense. Yesterday he had to tell her that _fuck_ was a bad word. It is harder to get in trouble when no one can understand you.

Dexter is not sure how to hold a party. They are living with a circus, it is hard to beat the flashing lights and excited mood. They have no friends to invite because no one likes the smell of sawdust and they move a lot, and he has the gnawing feeling that mom has not prepared anything yet. Or maybe it is a surprise party. 

Or so it will be when she finally remembers that date and uses that as the excuse. Maybe she will drag them to one of the restaurants the tourist use, like they had done at his birthday. If she can find the money. 

Kai’s first wish comes when he cannot find her, and he has to go back two streets when he finally spots her, chubby face pressed against a store window. He is about to grab her arm and pull her along when he sees the tiger. 

Not a real once, of course (and thank god for that – he would rather skip the conversation about why they cannot have a tiger at home). It is a silly stupid stuffed tiger, and judging by the look in Kai’s eyes she is already imagining carrying it under her arm. It looks way more mightier than the old tiger on granny’s pictures. 

“Orange, right?” 

“Yep,” he says and pulls her along, “with black stripes.” 

He was going to tell mom about it this evening, he had the speech ready and everything – always remember the _please_ and puppy eyes. 

But their home stinks of alcohol when they open the door, and there is a man who Dexter does not know the name of. They are in the couch, arms slung around each other, obviously busy, but Kai runs forward before he can stop her.

 She is told to go away and Dexter tells her the same, trying to pull her along, but she is crying now, talking about that stupid tiger, and mom tells them it has to wait, the man tells them to fuck off, and Kai is sobbing.

Dexter is angry. There is something old and hidden and snarling inside of him, and he is shouting, not even sure of what words leaves his mouth. It must surprise mom because her face goes blank, and there is a horrifying satisfaction within Dexter that makes him want to smile.

But he does not.

The man stands up, and it clicks within Dexter’s head – his name is Josh, that is right, he was here last week where Dexter barely managed to catch a glimpse of him before mom ushered them away. Now his face darkened with irritation, and he is yelling for them to get it and fuck off. 

Kai screams in anger. It is fascinating with how loud noise can leave such a small body. 

Dexter pulls her away, and the man lashes out. In the mist of anger and alcohol everyone seems oblivious to the bottle in his hand until there is a sharp pain near Dexter’s left eye and when he opens it there is red – red is the lips, red is the blood – and everyone in the room seems to freeze. 

 _Kai is screaming_.

* * *

Maybe it is the name. Maybe _Fuckboy_ just has a ring to it. Or maybe it is his looks. Fuckboy is not exactly ugly but he does not have that crazy six-pack that Rowse has managed to gain after years of preparation. Fuckboy is slimmer, is better with a sniper rifle than at up-close combat, and then he has a quick mouth. 

“Maybe I’m just good with the ladies,” Fuckboy suggests after sending the bottle around. All the men take a gulp, enjoying the bitter smell of alcohol that warm them – the nights get cold on this planet.

A few are stuck with guard duty but the rest are gathered around Fuckboy and his prize.

“Then why did you not bring back a girl as well?” Rowse asks when the bottle has left his lips. He hands it over to Grif who is sitting next to him on the bunk.

“Who needs girls when you have alcohol?” another guy asks and the group laughs.

“Obviously you have not tried sex with a woman yet.”

“I have. Vodka beats it.”

Grif snorts and wonders if there is enough in the bottle for people to get drunk. Fuckboy had snuck away to the nearest settlement during his patrol and had somehow managed to get all the way back before Sergeant Levan reported him missing and thus put a bounty on his head.

“Is it true?” Fuckboy asks when the room has grown hot enough, when the laugher is warm enough, and Grif has to blink twice before he realizes he is talking to him.

He tilts his head. From the corner of his eye he watches Rowse drink. The bottle is almost empty now. “What? That I almost died for a cream pie? ‘cause that totally did happen and yes, I am that heroic.”

“’bout the draft.”

“The one man draft,” Rowse adds for the dramatic tone.

Everyone in the room is staring at him now, curious faces revealed since they can finally take off their helmets. Grif is not sure where his own eyes should be looking at, so he steals the bottle from Rowse and focuses on that instead.

“Yep,” he answers when his mouth is burning again. “All true. Sucks to be me.”

“Man, you have the worst luck.” Fuckboy whistles, he is _that_ impressed. Achievement of the day. “And I thought I was unlucky.”

“You just robbed someone of their alcohol,” Rowse reminds him as the bottle is passed along again. “What do you have to complain about?”

Fuckboy raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know why I joined the army?”

“What? The second most unheard of draft?”

“Lost a bet with my brother. I’m a man of honor, so I followed through.”

Now it is Rowse’s time to whistle. “Teaches you not to do bets.”

“You kidding me? I’m doing one right now. Big brother said I won’t last half a year in the war. Easiest money I’ll ever make.”

* * *

Kai still smells like the seawater, despite the layers of cheap sweet perfume. Her hair is still a mess of dark curls, long like his own, and he buries his face in it as they hug. Decades pass in a second, and all his sense reminds him of _home_.

Her sister tears off his helmet and her own, runs a finger along the scars that serve as a border between two tones of skin, and he remembers her when she was a baby, tiny fingers wrapped around his hand.

Now she is grown and she is in a warzone, and _it is his fault_ , she has always been his responsibility. 

Their noses touch in a caring gesture, and when she pulls back her eyes are watery and happy and excited. There is a knot of dread in his stomach but he is not quite sure if his eyes are betraying him – one of them did belong to Simmons after all. 

And Simmons, the nerd is standing in the corner of the room, watching their reunion with a dumbfounded expression. His new eye, brightly red, stares into the void of the room and reveals nothing, but the other one is confused and shocked and most of all hurt. 

It occurs to them both that there is a lot that was never brought up during their midnight talks, stories from their lives that have not even been revealed in soft, hushed whispers. Their shared room is not like the psychologist office Grif was once stuck in, forced to answer every question, _when_ , _why_ , _where_ and _why do you think_ -? 

Grif has seen Simmons smash a mirror, touched the scars on his knuckle, and he has not asked why. 

Simmons has not asked Grif was he is here, not truly. 

Both are questions not fit for pillow talk, and with unasked questions comes lack of knowledge. 

_I did not know you had a sister._

* * *

The gash itches more than it hurts, and Dexter is told not to scratch, not to touch, not to peel it off unless he wants to create a long nice scar that begins at his forehead, trails down through the eyebrow and runs out when it reaches his cheek. His blunt nails manage to be useful and he sprinkles scab on the floor and wipes the blood away with his knuckle and whenever he swims in the sea it stings.

Kai does not want to watch the show tonight. Her birthday is three days away, and mom is yet to bring it up. His sister screams at him whenever he causes the gash to bleed, calls him stupid, and then sulks in the corner. 

Mom kisses Dexter on the forehead now, whenever she has looked at him for too long, and her mouth smells too sweet and her red nails dig into his cheeks and makes him want to pull away. She made sure the eye was taken care of, two stitches in the top of the gash, and when they came home they drank soda and Josh was nowhere to be seen. 

Stitches cost, Dexter knows that, and he wants to tear them out and trade them for Kai’s gift. The stuffed tiger is still in the store window, still as orange as Kai imagines it to be. She has stopped looking through the glass now mainly because she prefers to stay in bed now and she buries her head in her pillow whenever he tries to cheer her up. The sight of the gash makes her cry.

Dexter crawls under the tribunes, trying to get a proper view of the clown through the endless rows of feet. His mom says he liked clowns when he was younger, that he laughed when they tripped over themselves and slammed their face against the dust. Now he watches in the dark, refusing to blink until his eyes hurt, and when he blinks he cringes as the motion pulls the sore skin. 

Above him people clap and children laugh and fill their mouth with cotton candy and salted corn and almost choke when their gasp are too loud. 

Dexter is beneath them and he has dried blood in his eyelashes and a sister who is now scared of bottles and a mom that keeps emptying them. 

In front of him is a purse, resting near the foot of a spectator who is spellbound by the stumbling clown. The purse is orange, no, _gold_ , and it sparkles when the rays of lights hit it, illuminating it for him. 

The clown throws a ball in the air and fails to catch it. People clap when he bows his head in shame. 

Dexter reaches out.

* * *

Grif does not understand. Honestly, there are a lot of things he does not understand, things that keep him up at night. A lot of questions about why moms leave and why one man drafts exist and which armrest is technically yours at a cinema and stuff like that. 

Today he is wondering why they still have to go through fucking morning training every fucking morning – despite them all escaping the hell called Basic. 

Grif trips. 

When a shadow lands upon his crouched form he expects it to be Sergeant Levan. It is not. She is further ahead, screaming at the rest of the patrol because they are not fast enough and they are fighting in a war damnit and they are humanity’s last hope and for some reason humanity’s last hope has to have strong leg muscles. 

Rowse crouches down to offer him a hand. 

“When do people realize running around in circles is a waste of time?” Grif asks breathlessly as they start jogging again. 

Rowse lets out a short laughter, light enough not to gain them any attention, light enough to disappear in the wind soon after. “You really expect things to change around here?” 

So many good questions in this world.

* * *

Kai uses the same the same stupid trick as when she was four. It is easy to call her childish. She is pouting, lower lip sticking out while wobbling, eyes round and filled with the heartbreaking look of betrayal, small tears starting to gather at the rims.

 The solution is to try to scramble together the coins for some ice creams or maybe bug Gabe until he gives them some cotton candy,  or that had been the solution but now Kai is an adult now, time flies, she is a freaking soldier now – oh how great they both turned out.

 Their armors are not meant for hugs, the touch becomes awkward and edges dig into their skin. He pats her head as he holds her. “Yeah, yeah. I know the drill. You hate me.” 

“Fucking right I do. You think I’m going to travel across space again? Cause I won’t. ‘sides the ship crashed. _And_ you said I’m never allowed to fly ever again. You dick.” 

“No, Simmons is the Dick in this base. I’m the asshole.” 

“Yeah, you are.” She sniffs twice, tears threatening to start falling. “Why can’t you stay?” 

“’cause I have to go with Simmons to some sort of rat hole. Nerd’s gonna get himself killed if he goes alone.” 

“Why can’t you just both stay here and get married?” 

“’cause Donut would kill us if he did not get to plan the damn thing.” He brushes a stray tear away from her cheek. “Smile, that was a joke. And don’t tell Simmons I said that.” 

“You have to tell him you’re engaged at some point.” 

“Usually you first tell people they are engaged when they are actually engaged.” 

She hugs him again, making their noses touch. “That steals all the fun from it. Believe me.” 

A low chuckle escapes his throat. When they pull away he makes the rules clear. “Stay here. Party. _No_ alcohol. _No_ boys. Don’t get pregnant, don’t get yourself killed and don’t embarrass the family.” 

“It’s gonna be _boooring_.” 

“You have a whole base to yourself. Work with that. But keep smoke machines out of it. I mean it. We don’t want a repeat of last time.” 

“What about the old, gross dude?” 

“Like we did with all our old, annoying neighbors.” 

“Yell stuff at them and call them old.” 

“Exactly.” 

“And throw eggs at their windows.” 

“Wait. What?” 

Kai throws herself forward again for one final hug. “If you die I’ll kill you.” 

“Same goes with you. So behave. I mean it.” 

She kisses him and he ignores the sadness in her smile. 

“I’ll be back soon so don’t be fucking stupid. Stay put.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, major thanks to my friend Creatrixanimi who has been doing all these amazing illlustrations! I cannot thank you enough!  
> I suggest you all go check out all her other amazing RvB art which you can find on her tumblr http://creatrixanimi.tumblr.com/
> 
> This story is the product of some of our shared headcanons, and I am having much fun digging into Grif's childhood and his time on the colony.
> 
> In the next chapter we will look into Grif's life in school, his second week in the colony and the gang's adventures between s6 and 10. We will also discover just what the journal means to the plot so the title will actually make sense.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this first chapter!


	2. Snowflakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rhythm goes like this: childhood, colony, canon. The three c's, I just realized XD

“I want the blue one.”

Dexter nods and steps towards the bed. His left foot lands in orange, the other in yellow. Their shared bedroom is covered in fabric, like the remains of a bomb exploding in Kai’s closet.

The living room seems to have suffered from an explosion as well, but instead of fabric, it’s covered in empty snack packages, unopened letters and dirt from the knocked-over ashtray. Dexter tries his best to stock all the empty bottles away because Kai still can’t look at them without remembering the incident, and her fearful expression is being reflected in the tainted glass.

He grabs the shirt Kai is pointing at with a chubby finger. His fingers brush against the worn fabric near the elbows, as thin and delicate as spider webbing. He knows mom won’t fix it. He doesn’t believe that she can sew.

Kai’s hair appears as a frenzy mane after she eagerly pulls the shirt down her head. She does a spin, and he suddenly remembers the spotlight back in the circus, the dancing ladies in their colorful dresses and with their red lips, and how mom had talked bitterly about their long legs.

The apartment is alright, he supposes. Better than the cart.

He isn’t quite sure if he misses the circus.

Kai’s skirt is orange, and it twirls around with her. The color clashes with the shirt.

“I don’t think it matches,” he says, straightening out his sore back. He should clean up the room, in case mom gets mad, but he’s so tired, and he cannot remember the last time she entered their bedroom anyway. Sometimes they all hang out in the couch, watching movies on the new tv. Those evenings are nice.

“I think it looks fine.”

“Yeah.” He’s trying to put the clothes away, just so that they don’t have to sleep on top of the piles when evening comes, but he can’t remember how to fold them properly. He tries, but the sleeves suddenly don’t seem to be equally long, so in the end he just stuffs all of it inside the closet and prays that the door won’t burst open and spill it all onto the floor again.

“What does it mean?” Kai asks, smacking her lips. “To match?”

Kai always asks a lot of questions.

He’s usually the one to answer them.

“It looks good,” he says at first and frowns because the words don’t seem to describe what he’s thinking. The perfect description is at the tip of his tongue but it keeps slipping away. Eventually, he wonders if it even existed in the first place. “It doesn’t look wrong. Or weird.”

“Do I look weird?” she asks him, grasping the handle of her brightly yellow school bag.

_Yellow like the sun_. That’s how the rhythm goes. She’s used a black marker to draw smiling faces all over it.

“No,” he tells her. “But stop asking people if they want to see your circus tricks. _That_ ’s weird.” 

* * *

The smoke flies upwards in an elegant twirl, above his head, above the green tree tops, dissolving into nothing before it hits the yellow sky.

The cigarette leaves a familiar taste in his mouth. Like old coffee and curse-words scratching the back of his throat, and the heavy gravity back on Earth. He can’t describe it the way it feels, but he clings to the comfort anyway.

Fuckboy has his own package, and he tries to blow rings of smoke. They dissolve before they can be admired.

Rowse has joined them in their break. He sits on his own moss-covered rock, watching them kill themselves slowly, as he describes it. He’s holding onto his rifle which he brings everywhere. It’s like a kid with a stuffed animal. In the week they’ve been here, Grif has only seen him without a weapon so few times that he can count them on one hand.

“So what’s the story with _that_?” Fuckboy asks, pointing at Grif’s face.

Grif pulls at his undersuit to let the skin on his neck breathe. It’s always hot here. Reminds him of home. “Fought off a bear. Saved seven crying kids. Broke both of the bear’s leg but then it lashed out and I figured I needed proof to tell the tale.”

Rowse actually laughs. It’s a brief, hoarse sound. “Of course. That’s why they just had to bring you aboard. That draft – a total hoax! They’d heard of your bravery.”

“Naturally,” Grif snorts along and inhales more smoke.

“Where are your scars, Rowse?” Fuckboy asks, either genuinely curious or having realized Grif won’t give them more answers. “Figured your parents would have prepped your looks for the role. With your muscles and all that. You just need some scars to go from bodybuilder to space hero.”

“I assumed we’ll all get them eventually.”

“Hah, the only scars we’ll get here will be from the great battle against the stubble on our chins.” Fuckboy tilts his head backwards to look at the smoke. “Low and behold, gentlemen, I got my first battle scar this morning.”

* * *

 Grif has been called a lot of things in his life. That’s just natural, he supposes. He’s quite okay with it. He never really liked his first name, anyway. It didn’t have the same exotic ring to it as _Kaikaina_. It has never reminded him of the islands.

His little family had mostly stuck to _Dex_. Kai always screams _Big Bro_ when she’s excited. The less kind people in his childhood had called him _Circus Boy_.

When he had been shoved into the military, his name had changed. He’s Grif now.

Dexter is a little lost boy on Hawaii, doing his best not to burn the rice when his mom doesn’t come home in time to make dinner.

Grif is a soldier, with a set of armor and a rifle to prove the fact.

In Blood Gulch he became _Fatass_. _Dirtbag._ _Numbnuts_. _Idiot_. _Moron_. _Useless_.

In Rat’s Nest he’s become-

“Sergeant,” Simmons finally sneers at him. They say envy is green, but Simmons’ eyes just turn to a darker shade of blue. “There. Are you happy?”

It’s been a long time since he’s been called _Dex_. 

* * *

 When his teacher asks him if he likes reading, he shrugs.

He likes the stories, the heroes and the monsters and the big questions which are asked before the plot is solved. But reading itself isn’t quite as enjoyable. It’s like stepping stones, but the distance too far between them. Dexter wants to get to the other side. It’s just harder than he wants it to be.

She says he’s doing good, patting his dark hair before she moves to the next student.

Dexter thinks he likes school. He likes the glittery stickers even though they are useless and a bit girly and he always gives them to Kai when they meet during recess.

He likes sitting at a desk instead of under a grandstand. He likes the big, colorful letters painted on the blackboard.

He doesn’t like being told what to do. He doesn’t create a fuss, like the older boys in his class who are sent to the naughty corner every day. If he doesn’t want to do the assignment, he’ll just refuse to touch his pencil, until his teacher asks him if he’s feeling alright and if he wants to go to the school nurse.

Most of the times, he actually does what he’s told. But only because he wants to.

That’s why he’s sitting with his book now, back home, on the worn couch while Kai is doing cartwheels in front of him. He wonders if the downstairs neighbors will complain again.

He’s reading a ‘choose your own adventure’ book, which had sounded like a good idea in the beginning. Until he screwed up and read some of the pages by mistake. Now he flips through the pages, already knowing how his hero is likely to end up strangled by a snake or drowning in the river or accidently selling his heart to a witch. He prefers the witch-option. It sounds less painful.

Dexter wonders how much of an adventure it really is when you’re bound to fail. But he keeps scanning the words with his eyes, mentally pronouncing each and every syllable mentally until the meanings unfold before his eyes. He knows there is an ending where the hero wins.

Kai grunts when she twists her legs into an impossible position.

He lifts his eyes. “What are you doing that for?”

“For the circus,” she replies, and she places her foot behind her head with an impressive and disgusting grace.

“ _Why_? We’re not in the circus anymore.”

A new life. That’s what mom told them when they suddenly left the familiar cart and stepped into a train and suddenly they were in an old, little apartment that smelled sour instead of sawdust. Mom has a new job now. He isn’t quite sure just what the job is, since she changes her titles a lot. He’s stopped asking.

Kai shrugs and continues to practice her flexibility.

Dexter continues to read, word by word, and when the hero has to choose between the old bridge and the gloomy path, he still chooses the bridge to read the drowning scene again.

* * *

“Sergeant Levan is going to kill you,” Fuckboy says after stealing away his bottle.

Grif reaches for it, making grabby-hands like Kai used to, hypnotized by the rays of lights under the grandstand. But his fingers move too slow, and the world moves too quickly, and he’s falling against his teammate, face pressed against the uniform. “It’s okay,” he says, words slurring. “All gonna die anyway. Huh. That’s why we’re here. In case you wondered.”

“Great. He’s a depressive drunk. Rowse, take him before he begins to drool.”

The world shifts again, and he’s standing, and he laughs because the colors all mix together, like a melting rainbow, and he wishes he could describe the sight to Kai. He wonders-

He wonders if she’s still practicing her split.

There’s a pressure on his arm. It hurts a bit.

“Please walk,” Rowse tells him as he’s been dragged out of the bar. Fuckboy had been right – there’s a very little distance to the nearest city. They like soldiers. Gave them discount. It tasted bitter. Familiar. “You are too heavy to carry.”

Grif leans on him as they stumble their way back to the base. When he looks up, he sees a dark sky and stars, so many, and they melt too, falling into the darkness. “I’m sorta fat.”

“That’s one way to say it.”

“I didn’t fight a bear.”

“I know. That’s okay.”

The stars don’t look the same as the view back on Earth.

“I’m sorta a coward too,” his mouth says instead of throwing up.

Rowse keeps him upright. “That’s okay.”

* * *

“Stop with the looks.”

“What looks?” Simmons asks, head lowered. “I don’t send looks – I _can’t_ send looks! We’re wearing helmets!”

“We could take them off.”

“ _Never_!” Simmons basically shrieks, and his eyes jump from Grif to the mongoose between them. “This thing is enough of a deathtrap already.”

Grif doesn’t scare easily. Well, he _does_ , but not when it comes to vehicles. His mind is clearer on the roads. The world becomes a little less threatening.

He sits down, grabs the steering handles. The leather feels good under his gloves. “Are you disobeying an order, Private Simmons?”

He looks over his shoulder to see Simmons slowly inching closer, as if approaching a sneering animal.

And eventually, he settles in behind him. His body is pressed against Grif’s back, and despite the armor, he can still feel the heat. It feels better than the leather. “Do we really have to bring up titles?” he mutters as he tightens his grip around Grif’s torso. His arms are long enough.

“I like it when you call me ‘ _Sir’_.”

Grif brings the mongoose to life.

“ _Ass_ -“ Simmons barely has the time to hiss before they are moving forward, Rat’s Nest turning into a blur as they race down the circuit track. There are no patrols out at this hour. Even if they were, Grif would just tell them to go suck a dick. He has that amount of power now.

The faster they go, the more Simmons clings to him.

Grif aims to break the sound barrier.

“Grif,” Simmons says on their third lap around Rat’s Nest. Their helmets are touching. It’s as much intimacy as the army allows them.

“Simmons,” Grif says.

The world is a blur when he’s driving.

He’s never liked titles.

* * *

The teacher smiles at him and gives him a note to bring back home to mom. They don’t get grades yet, but a written evaluation they are supposed to bring back for their parents to read so they can either get praise or get sent to their bed without dinner. Something like that.

Mom has never punished him like that, so he supposes he’s lucky. But mom never asks how he’s doing in school.

He doesn’t know when mom will be home. Probably first after he’s gone to bed.

So when he goes to the bathroom stall, waiting out the hour until he can pick up Kai, he pulls out the envelope from his bag and tears it open with his thumb.

It’s too long for him too read properly. He’s too tired after a day at his desk, talking about the countries of the world and describing the nearby beach, being asked to use all the new words they’ve been taught.

_Exotic_. _Fascinating_. _Polluted_.

One sentence captures his attention, and he reads it over and over, understanding all the words, so simple and easy to read, right there, black letters against the white paper.

_Dexter is smart but not in the ways we expect from him_.

He puts the letter back in the envelope. Places it in his pocket. Puts his bag over his shoulder. Leaves the stall and goes to the courtyard. Fifteen minutes until he can pick up Kai.

“What’s with your face?”

Dexter wants to keep moving, but the boy steps in front of him, arms crossed, mean expression screaming that he’s a dickhead. He isn’t from Dexter’s class, just a year or two too old.

“What’s with _your_ face?” Dexter sneers back. No one seems impressed with his comeback. He isn’t impressed either.

“I don’t have a scar,” the boy tells him proudly. A finger with a bitten-down nail points at Dexter’s left eye.

“That’s okay. You look stupid enough without one.”

“Where did you get that scar?” He reaches out with a bony hand, shoving his shoulder when he doesn’t answer. “Hey, where did you get that scar?!”

_Dexter is smart but not in the ways we expect from him_.

He bites some skin off his lip. “I ran into a door.”

He can hear the laughter growing in their stomachs, crawling its way up their throats into amused howls that echo through the courtyard, bouncing against painted windows and brick walls with charcoal drawings, until every kid is laughing along.

“That’s stupid,” the boy tells him. “You’re so stupid. Weren’t you taught that in circus, you circus boy? Wasn’t that one of your tricks? How to open doors?”

Mom doesn’t work at the circus anymore. It doesn’t count.

“You smell like sawdust,” the boy continues to yell, his mocking smile growing wider and wider until it begins to crack. “And elephant shit. Don’t they have showers in the circus?”

Dexter wants to punch him. Right there, in his stupid face. He wants his nose to bleed, and then he wants to tell him about the lights in the circus, all the colors, and how the acrobats had been flying in the air, and he wants to tell him about Granny and the old tiger and the free cotton candy, and how mom had told him he was brave when they sewed his face back together, but if he throws a punch the teachers will come running, and he knows mom won’t answer her phone, and there are only two minutes until he has to pick up Kai.

_Dexter is smart but not in the ways we expect from him_.

So he pulls himself away with the laughter hitting him in his back, making him stumble forwards, until he’s at the flower bed where Kai is waiting with a smile on her face.

They walk back home, and he has one hand gripping hers, and the other pressed against his pants, feeling the envelope burn in his pocket.

* * *

He stays in the closet.

It’s dark and it helps with the headache that explodes behind his eyelids. The music from the bar yesterday is still thrumming inside his skull, a steady rhythm that is leaving cracks in his cranium. It feels like it’s splitting apart.

He vomited when Rowse dropped them in their bunk last night, and he spent his morning eating every salty snack he could get his hands on.

And then he’d fled, before anyone could tell him to join morning training, and his search for a dark and quiet place led him to the closet. He can fit inside. Surprise, surprise. He’s always waiting for the fat jokes.

The metal is cold against his cheek, and it’s a small comfort, when your head is filled with pain and memories of sand and sawdust and beams of light and the dimples on Kai’s face.

He can hear orders being shouted far away, military boots walking up and down the hallways in a steady speed.

Grif stays in the dark.

* * *

Reds never go alone.

Sarge told him that during Grif’s first week in Blood Gulch, when he’d offered to go on patrol without Simmons. Maybe he’d known Grif was only sneaking out to smoke. Or maybe he truly believed in his own words.

Maybe that’s the case.

Maybe that’s why he appears out of nowhere, in true Sarge-fashion, to ruin the moment between Grif and Simmons. Well, _after_ Grif had ruined it himself. But he doesn’t want to know what Simmons has to say. He doesn’t want to die knowing that there could have been something-

Sarge saves their life, as well. Grif can hardly complain about that.

He’s thought a lot about dying before, but it’s always been visions of bloody claws, alien footprints and too quiet bases. He’s never expected a firing squad.

Reds never go alone. Yet Sarge had stayed behind. Okay, Lopez was there, but does he really count? Simmons brings a calculator wherever he goes, for some reason that Grif cannot understand.

Sarge stayed behind. So did Kai-

Maybe-

Maybe the saying is that Reds and Blues go together. With some bullets and insults exchanged on the way.

It would explain why they can’t get rid of the Blues. They just stick around, like the stray dogs Kai always wanted to pet.

Grif can’t seem to get rid of his Red teammates, either. But going home is also out of the picture, and then he prefers the company, no matter how horrible and insulting and threatening it is.

And then

                      Simmons is gone.

* * *

It’s eight in the evening and he’s burned the onions too much. They stick to the pan, no matter how many times he hits it, and he supposes they can work as dark sprinkles, like small pieces of charcoal. Perhaps they’ll add some flavor.

He cuts his finger when he prepares the tomatoes, and the water boils over and the pastas still feel too hard when he pokes them, and the meat smells kinda funny but it looks better after it’s been mixed with the tomatoes. He sticks a finger in the sauce, burns the skin, and puts it in his mouth to check the taste. He’s eleven years old a big boy and he should know how to cook this.

Kai doesn’t complain, at least. She chews with her mouth open and says it’s good and that she likes it.

He leaves a plate of leftover for mom. Just in case.

She’s asleep on the couch the next morning, but the dish is still in the fridge.

He eats it for her, and he doesn’t care that the meat is cold and that the pastas are too hard against his teeth.

* * *

“Do you want to be sent home?”

“Uhm, _yeah_?”

She stares daggers at him. Even without her helmet, her expression is unreadable. Maybe it’s a consequence of being in the army for too long. Maybe your face starts to disappear. Maybe you become too used to talking to visors.

“You’re not going home,” Sergeant Lewan tells him.

The words echo inside his brain.

“You’re going to run ten laps around the base, and you’ll start running now, Private Grif.”

Grif remembers how Granny told him the old tiger would pace back and forth in his little cage, going nowhere. This feels just as pointless.

His head still hurts, and his legs trips over themselves, but he stumbles forward, lungs heaving for air after a minute.

It hasn’t even been two weeks, and he feels closer to death than ever. He supposes it’s natural. The despair. They were sent out here to die, after all. Or to rot. He prefers to rot. It’s slower. He’s stuck on a planet in the middle of fucking nowhere, and they’ll first pick him up when he’s completed the job he can’t even start.

If he has to protect the city, that means there has to be a danger to protect it from. Grif doesn’t want danger. He doesn’t want claws and alien weapons. But if there are no dangers, that means he can’t protect them, and if he isn’t protecting, his duty doesn’t exist.

He wants to go home.

He trips again.

“You have to try, Grif,” Sergeant Lewan yells at him when he asks if he can give up and die on the ground. “Or I’ll kick your ass all the way to the finish line.”

For a moment, he’s pretty sure that’s the preferred option.

* * *

“Stop with the moping.”

“What moping? I’m not moping.” Grif says and grips the steering wheel tighter. The Warthog is comforting. They’ve been living so many places at this point. The Warthog just always followed around. Grif remember how he once had been a teenager and proudly proclaimed that he didn’t mind living in a car – but he’d had a sister to look after, and so he had to stay in the apartment. “Sarge, I’m wearing a fucking helmet. You can’t see shit. And I’m not moping.”

Sarge huffs.

Grif stares ahead. The desert seems to stretch endlessly. Sand and sand and more sand. It’s like they aren’t moving at all. He breathes in deeply.

“Okay, so how are we going to take down _two_ fucking Freelancers?” he asks Sarge. He wants an answer. He wants to know how to get out of this. He wants to know how to get Simmons back. He wants to know if Donut is really dead. He wants to know if the rest of them are going to survive this. Despite his visor, he feels like the sand is hurting his eyes. “And, just for your information, I haven’t signed up to be the meat shield this time!”

“Are you sure?” Sarge asks him, as if Grif is not willing to be a big fat distraction in order to get Simmons back.

Grif sighs.

“Not to worry,” Sarge tells him after a pat on the shoulder. He uses enough force to make it hurt, just slightly. “My plan is nothing like that.”

“…Are you sure?”

“In fact, I need your brilliant head!”

“…Why am I having a hard time believing this?”

“Your thick skull is absolutely perfect for this! Tell me, Grif, how do you feel about walls?”

He’s been asked stranger things in life.

But still.

“…Is this a trick question?”

* * *

Kai tugs his hair until he wakes up. He wants to swat her away, telling her to go get that glass of water herself and let him sleep, _please_ , but there are tears running down her cheeks so he sits up and lets her bury her face in his night shirt. It’s already stained, anyway.

It’s a nightmare, obviously, but it takes a while before Kai can tell him sentences coherent enough for him to understand. Apparently, he dropped his stupid fire torch while performing in the spotlight, and the audience kept clapping, even after the fire spread, and for Kai, everything that burned became black, and it spread and spread until all the grey had disappeared and the acrobats fell into a pit of darkness when their hands failed to grab each other.

Falling, falling, until Dexter hugs her close until they both fall asleep.

She has the stuffed tiger under her arm, _orange like the tiger_ , the one he gave her so long ago, bought with money that wasn’t his, and he feels something unpleasant settle in his stomach, a mix of guilt and anger, before his eyes close.

Sometimes he dreams of the circus too. Mostly about the clowns. He’s never liked how they always smiled.

* * *

“What is he doing?”

Rowse sighs, as if the words pain him. “He’s trying to get the birds to say ‘ _Fuckboy’_.”

“ _Fuglbøg_!” Fuckboy screams so loudly that the birds fly away, red wings spreading before taking to the sky. He hangs his head in defeat before quietly waiting for them to return.

Apparently, the big birds that looks like shrunken dinosaurs are able to mimic voices. This had been discovered after the fire-alarm, or so they’d thought, had begun to shriek and mysteriously fade again six times daily, if not more.

Fuckboy finds it fascinating. Grif finds it annoying.

Rowse just shakes his head. “Good thing Sergeant Lewan didn’t kick you out, Grif.”

“ _How_ is that a good thing?”

“Because then I would have been forced to share bunk with birdman over here.”

“Asshole.”

“Keep going,” Grif encourages him. The jungle is thick and green, it’s too hot, the trees provide good shade, and there’s an hour until Lewan want them back at base. “I want the base to be attacked by a horde of birds screaming _‘Fuckboy’_. Your name will be remembered forever. Sorry, Rowse, but your family can’t beat this.”

When their hour is up, he’s managed to make the birds say _‘fuck’_.

Rowse says it’s a beginning.

Grif can’t stop laughing.

* * *

The snow in his hair is melting, and Grif shivers when water trickles down his neck. Sidewinder is white. So white it hurts the eyes, and Grif can’t decide what to think of the snow. It’s strange, and nothing like Hawaii, but it’s cold and unfamiliar, and now Grif can’t help but think of death whenever he touches it.

The memory of being dragged towards the edge of the cliff, snow preventing him from getting a secure grip, and then the falling, the falling, is still so livid inside his brain.

But he also remembers the feeling of Simmons’ fingers crushing his own.

They are waiting for the UNSC to arrive, Doc is treating Agent Washington, Sarge is making sure he won’t try anything, and the Blues are mourning.

Simmons won’t stop shivering.

At some their helmets come off, and they’re lying in the snow, and Simmons’ wet hair is plastered to his forehead. There are bags under his eyes, deeper than Grif has ever seen them before.

He reaches out to touch the skin, burning in the cold.

“I didn’t know you liked the snow,” Simmons mutters into his ear. “You- you had the fire tricks, right? I didn’t think you’d like it. The snow. Here.”

“It is pretty cold,” Grif says, feeling Simmons’ shaky breaths against his face. The snowflakes keep falling, and one of them land in his eyelash.

Grif can’t stop shivering.

“Yeah,” Simmons says, hand wrapping around Grif’s. This time Grif isn’t pulled away from him. “Cold.”

They keep each other warm.

 

* * *

 The heavy raindrops explode against the pavement, and his shoes are eating into his heels, and he wonders if it’s time to get new ones and he hopes that it isn’t.

Kai is sick, and mom has been lying on the couch all weekend, complaining about headaches and a broken heart. She’d let Kai cuddle close to her, promising to warm some milk later for her throat, and Dexter had been watching in the doorway, until she shooed him away. Big boys go to school. Her girl stays home to get better.

It’s fair. He isn’t sick, but he’s tired, but he’s always been tired, but today it’s worse, but and but and but and but-

He steps inside the bus shelter, sitting down on the part of the bench that isn’t covered in used gum.

The cars drive by and Dexter drops his bag on the pavement. It falls over, basically empty since he left most of the books back home, refusing to carry a heavy weight all the way to school. He doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t want to sit at the desk all day, but another part of him wants to, and he doesn’t want to receive the results from the latest test, but another part of him wants to, and he doesn’t want to play with the stupid kids in his class, but another part of him wants, and he doesn’t want to be smart, but another part of him wants to.

_Dexter is smart but not in the ways we expect from him_.

Sometimes he thinks they all expect too much from him. Other times he doesn’t think they expect anything from him at all.

He’s so tired. He wants to go to school and listen to his teacher talk about space, about planets with names too complicated to say out loud, and heroes with laser rifles, fighting evil aliens which will destroy the Earth if they got their will, aliens that eat naughty boys, which are the reason they should thank the UNSC every night when they’ve checked under their beds for tentacles so they can sleep soundly.

But if he falls asleep at this desk again, she’ll ask him to go to school nurse, voice gentle but firm, and they’ll ask question and Dexter hates to talk about home – who wants to talk about annoying little sisters and moms who- who works too much, also in the evening, but it’s okay, he’s a big boy, so they’re doing just fine, he’s just a bit tired, the flu’s going around again, it’s normal.

_Dexter is smart_

Dexter watches the cars drive by in a blur, and he wishes he had one, wishes his legs were long enough to touch the pedals and that his hands were skilled enough to twist the wheel the way his mind wants to go – away, straight forward, down the road with more speed than he’s allowed.

School began two minutes ago, and Grif is counting cars, thinking about how he can succeed in life

_but not in the ways we expect from him_.

 

* * *

  “I know some people,” Rowse tells him one day while they’re on patrol. “My family. They’re pretty high up in the military.”

“I _know_ , Rowse,” Grif sighs and wonder if he’ll pull out the helmet catalogue again. He’s already told Grif the story about how his aunt saved two patrols from an alien all on her own.

Rowse doesn’t say anything when Grif lights a cigarette. “I could ask them for a favor. No need in keeping a draftee who doesn’t want to be here, when there are already other men willing to spill their blood for their planet.”

“You’re kinda making me sound like a coward.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Good point.” He exhales, trying to keep his fingers steady around the cigarette. “You can get me sent home?”

Maybe Rowse is smiling behind his visor. He isn’t sure. He isn’t allowed to know.

“Yeah. Can’t let the big bear-fighter steal all the spotlight. Might take a month or two before they can pull the strings, though.”

Grif is pretty sure he’s smiling.

“Dude, I owe you a million snackbars. All glory to the great Rowse, son of Rowse, son Rowse and et cetera!” 

* * *

“How do you know that?” He gets off the bed so quickly that the blanket falls to the ground, leaving him naked and bare for Simmons to watch. But Grif doesn’t think about his body, about the _scars_ , plural, about his bulging stomach, or the newly-made hickeys, or the parts of him that were (are?) Simmons’.

He just stares at Simmons’ wide-eyed face, and he notices the way his cheeks redden in shame. It’s different, darker, than the embarrassed blush Grif sees so often. Simmons lowers his head.

“Simmons, _how do you know that_?” Grif asks again, and he realizes too late that the question leaves as a sneer, but he’s too upset to bother.

His heart is beating too loud for him to focus, and Simmons’ expression is to pitiful to look at, but it doesn’t change the fact that Simmons has mentioned Uplora. Grif hasn’t told him about Uplora and the colony. He hasn’t told anyone about it.

And yet, in the middle of their pillow talk, as Sarge would describe it, Simmons had been stupid enough to bring up Donut, and then came the emotions that followed, and he’d asked-

                      _Was it like that?_

_What?_

_With you back on Uplora? Did it feel like this? I can’t… I keep thinking if I could have- Grif?_

Grif’s hands are shaking. “Simmons.” It’s an order. Grif hates orders. But he needs to know.

Simmons raises his hands to his face, buries his fingers in his red hair. He looks tired. He’s looked tired since shit broke loose. Since Washington and the Meta and Donut-

He keeps getting nightmares. Grif tries to comfort him. Usually, talking about stupid stuff helps. Usually.

“I- I, uhm…” Simmons needs to clear his throat, so it doesn’t sound like he’s crying. “I read your journal. Back in Blood Gulch. It wasn’t- Sarge just wanted some intel. We didn’t receive a lot info on you, so I thought-“

“You thought it’d be cool to just fuck over my privacy?”

“Sarge-“

“ _Right_. It was an order. That makes everything completely fucking fine. Sorry I got upset.”

Simmons knows. He’s always known. Since Blood Gulch. Since _before_ they even…

It makes sense. Simmons mentioned the fire tricks, that fucking stupid show, back on Sidewinder. And Grif, the stupid idiot that he is (the idiot people keep reminding him he is) forgot to get suspicious. He never told him about that. Who wants to hear about the circus boy’s tricks? Were you the freak, circus boy? Did people pay to see your stupid face? Did they pay to see your mom? To fuck her? Did they, circus boy?

Simmons’ body is too long, too lanky and skinny and _hot beneath Grif’s fingers…_

Now he can’t seem to keep himself upright, and he rests his head in his hands, elbows pressed against his naked thighs.

“You told,” he says, voice shaking, “… you told the interviewer. I didn’t mean to bring it up.  _Fuck_. I know I-“

“Sure I told them!” There are goosebumps on his arms, and the skin that once was Simmons is burning. “Do you want to know _why_ , Simmons? Why I told them and not you? ‘cause they placed me in that chair after they picked me up, after I spent _two weeks alone_ , after they took me to doctor who said I was fine, sole survivor and everything, and they pumped me so full of drugs that I thought _I was going home_.”

“Grif-“

“And they kept asking the questions, over and over, and I thought- Didn’t really matter. Of course it didn’t matter. I sure as hell didn’t get sent to Earth. They drilled holes in my skull, placed some freaky metal in there, and then they sent me to Blood Gulch. To get stuck with _you_.”

He thinks Simmons is crying. His breathing is wet. “I-“

A whole life of embarrassment and secrets that Dexter worked so hard to keep hidden-

Grif clenches his fists.

How many clicks had it taken Simmons to get access to Grif’s life? Three clicks? Four?

“I was tricked into spilling everything, Simmons. And you sure as hell didn’t deserve that info either.”

Maybe one day, when Simmons could hold his hand without blushing, when he could speak up to Sarge, when he could say one coherent sentence about his dad without cutting himself off, then maybe Grif would have told him.

“I know,” Simmons admits.

Grif leaves the room and doesn’t care if he’ll run into Sarge. Who cares if Grif is naked for the world to behold? Who cares if his eyes are burning?

Grif sure as hell doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooo sorry for the wait! It is entirely my fault, and it shouldn't have taken me that many months to start writing for this chapter. That being said, I have to thank you all for the massive support for the first chapter. Thank you so much, guys!  
> And thank you, creatrixanimi, for the absolutely wonderful illustrations!
> 
> One chapter left, guys!

**Author's Note:**

> Once more, major thanks to my friend Creatrixanimi who has been doing all these amazing illlustrations! I cannot thank you enough!  
> I suggest you all go check out all her other amazing RvB art which you can find on her tumblr http://creatrixanimi.tumblr.com/
> 
>  
> 
> And as always: English is not my native language so I apologize for any grammar mistakes I did not catch, and I am riathedreamer on tumblr if you want to find me!


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